A One-Shot Sherlock Story
by BritLitChick
Summary: Actually, well, more than one ... Sherlock and OC Grace Hammer drink shots of vodka and whiskey while playing chess. Inspired by a real product that I don't think I ever actually need to own. Rated T for excessive alcohol consumption.


Author's Note: Grace Hammer is an OC (original character) who appeared in a series of stories now taken down from this site. However, she had a bit of a following and I occasionally still write something featuring her. For those of you new to Grace, she is an American woman Sherlock met while visiting the States; she now lives in London, works in Mycroft's organization, is romantically involved with Sherlock (a sometimes uncomfortable relationship), and is a friend of John's.

* * *

"It's pointless, John," Sherlock was saying grumpily as Grace came into the flat. The detective was slouched down on the couch, obviously annoyed. Before him was an unwrapped gift, its torn wrappings and ribbons piled on top so that Grace couldn't see what it was. "We don't need it anyway. I'm not going to use it. Hello, Grace."

"Hi. What's pointless?" she asked, coming around the corner to see John on a stepstool, rummaging along the top cupboard shelves.

"Hi, Grace," John greeted her. "Oh, come on, Sherlock, just once, and then throw it away. Have a little fun. It might even give me half a chance. I'm looking for drinkable spirits, Grace, do you remember seeing any in the flat?" He stepped off the stool and opened the refrigerator.

"No," she said curiously.

"It might give Grace three-quarters of one," Sherlock grumbled.

"Ah. Ugh," John said expressively, shutting the fridge door again in disgust. "Found it. Ethyl alcohol is an expensive substitute for methyl alcohol or formaldehyde, Sherlock."

"It's all we had on hand."

"What are we talking about?" Grace asked again. She walked to the coffee table and plucked the wrapping paper off of the gift. "Shot Glass Chess Set," she read from the box. "Hmm. Interesting concept."

"It's a gag gift for Christmas from the forensics team. They keep going on about how I need to have more fun, and how the consumption of grain alcohol would somehow lubricate the process," Sherlock said disdainfully.

"It might," John said cheerfully. "I'll be right back." He trotted down the steps, and then could be heard tapping at Mrs. Hudson's door.

Meanwhile Grace opened the box and pulled out the contents. In addition to the chessboard, there were thirty-two shot glasses, each with an image of a black or white chess piece printed on it. She went to the kitchen for a tray, and returned to place them on it. She carried them over to the kitchen sink to wash.

"Don't bother. We're not actually going to use that," Sherlock objected.

"Just because the forensics team doesn't think you drink doesn't mean that I don't know you do," Grace said archly. Sherlock blinked, parsing the sentence. John reappeared in the doorway, a canvas bag in one hand.

"Here we are. Whiskey and vodka."

"I'll play Black then," Grace said quickly, setting up the board and the clean glasses on the kitchen table.

"Oh, for God's sake," Sherlock said, but he got up and walked over to observe John pouring a finger of liquor into each glass. "Pour a little more into the knights and bishops, more yet into the rooks, and fill the Queens," he said suddenly. John and Grace glanced up at him, and then grinned at him and each other.

"You two are being very irresponsible, you know," Sherlock went on. "I would have thought you would be more likely to keep stuff like this away from me." He settled himself on the vodka side of the board, shaking back the sleeves of his dressing gown and placing his elbows on the table. He steepled his fingers before his lips, carefully not looking at his friends.

John and Grace shared a look. John stopped pouring, and there was a pause. Then John said, "I called Grace after Mycroft texted me." He got his mobile out of his picket and passed it to Sherlock.

_Danger night. _

_Help him avoid 7%._

_MH_

"He said 'danger', and here you are," Sherlock observed, "Giving me 80 proof instead." A corner of his lips quirked up as John snickered, and then finished pouring the glasses. "The lesser of two evils, indeed, and all the better for having it in company. Right then." He slid a glass forward two squares and looked squarely at Grace as she took her seat across from him. "Game on."

John poured himself some vodka in a tumbler, added some cranberry juice and ice, and settled on a stool to watch.

Several moves later, John said, ceremoniously, "And so it begins," as Grace handed Sherlock the pawn's glass she'd captured and he drained it of vodka. Moments later, Sherlock handed her one of her own. She made as if to sip it daintily, but at the last moment knocked it back in one swallow and placed it back on the table firmly.

John chuckled. "Probably safest. I can't imagine why Mrs. Hudson had that around."

"I'm sorry I called Black before I saw or smelled it," she said. "I would have expected Mrs. Hudson to have more of a taste for a highland than barely 10-year-old Speyside." Sherlock raised an eyebrow at her. "No matter. I won't be having much more of the stuff, and then she can have the rest back for stripping her floors."

"Maybe the second glass will taste better," Sherlock suggested, capturing another pawn glass of whiskey and handing it to her.

"A nice theory." She downed it as she had the first, and then set it aside. "You have to admit, one does have to rethink the standard strategy," she remarked, sliding a glass along a diagonal.

"Hoping to capture early and often, are you?" Sherlock asked. "I prefer to aim for your fuller glasses." He lifted a glass and set it carefully on another square. Grace eyed the board, noting the threats to her "rook", before shifting one of her "knights" to another square.

"Yeah, capture his Queen, Grace," John advised.

"Trying," Grace murmured, as she and Sherlock lifted, placed, and slid the remaining glasses around the board. "But right now he's offering me his rook."

John, looking at the position, looked confused. "In three more moves, John," Sherlock said. "After the even exchange, and if she's willing to drink two more pawns for it. Which, it appears, she is." Glasses moved, were removed from the table, traded, and emptied.

"Here you go," Grace said, handing Sherlock yet another glass. Her gaze was steady. "You left your bishop hanging on purpose."

"Did I?" he responded, a little blurrily, tossing back the vodka. "If you'd care to examine the position, now I have a good attack on your Queen. It's worth a shot."

"No puns," John and Grace said, simultaneously. Grace kicked him under the table for good measure. "House rule."

Sherlock kicked back, losing a slipper, and he and Grace were distracted for a few moments while she toed out of her shoes and the game under the table went in another direction. Finally, at John's impatient look, Grace adopted a prim look and drew up her legs, folding them tidily under her. Sherlock pouted and stuck out his tongue at her, making her giggle.

John started to line the glasses up pairwise alongside the board. "You've each drunk two pawns and two bishops or knights, plus Sherlock drank his rook while Grace had two more of her pawns. Sherlock's had just a finger or so more so far."

"Another knight against Sherlock," Grace put in, handing him the glass.

"Very poor schtrategy," Sherlock noted, grimacing as he set the empty glass down. "Excuse me … _sch_ … _strategy_," he repeated. "You'll miss your rook in the endgame."

"I don't believe we're going to have an endgame," Grace said, moving her Queen glass decisively out of the way. She accepted her "rook" glass from Sherlock and drank it absently before continuing. Play ran on for several moves with no further captures.

Then Grace smiled in mock sympathy as Sherlock, frowning, watched her take and then hand him his other "rook". He sighed dramatically and drank it down. Then his expression changed to a sly grin.

"You feel … fell for … the trwap," he said, blinking. He leaned far over the board, whispering confidingly. He made a move, slowly and deliberately. "Trap," he said more distinctly, emphasizing the "p".

"What, that I lose my Queen in five forced moves?" Grace responded, weaving slightly. "I saw that, of course." She leaned back in her seat and crossed her arms. "But I also see that we're not playing with a clock. What do you think, John? About three minutes?"

"Until that last shot hits him? If that," John said thoughtfully, sipping at his Cape Cod.

Sherlock looked back and forth from one to the other. "I'm. Not. Drunk," he said slowly and solemnly, if a bit defensively. He closed his eyes for a long blink, and then opened them again. He seemed to have trouble remaining steadily upright. He reached for a glass on the board.

"That's my piece," Grace said, eyebrows raised. "You're playing White, remember?"

"Wwwrrite," Sherlock agreed, moving it anyway before slumping back in his chair. John smirked as Sherlock kept moving, sliding slowly down, inch by inch, his eyes fixed on the board.

Grace rolled her eyes. "_And_ it was my move. Here. I'll do yours, since it's forced anyway." She did so, but was clearly in no hurry. Then she sat back, hands in her lap.

A minute passed. Sherlock stared blearily at the board, while Grace waited quietly. Finally Sherlock spoke. "His, um, whose move?" By now his head rested uncomfortably along the back of the chair, and his eyes were nearly level with the table, but he appeared either too unconcerned or too unable to do anything about it.

Grace smiled. "Mine," she said innocently, making it, and then "Catch him, John," just as Sherlock slumped over sideways. John, alert for just this possibility, had already set down his drink, caught his friend, and hoisted him up by the armpits. Sherlock objected ineffectually, as John ducked under one of his arms and supported him, following Grace back to his bedroom.

Grace held back the covers, and John toppled Sherlock into bed with a practiced lift and twist. Grace tucked him in.

"Feeling okay?" she asked, speaking a little murkily herself. "Do you feel sick at all?"

"No. Feel fine," Sherlock said, eyes closed and burping slightly. "White resigns," he added, turning over and gathering the covers under his chin. Grace gave him a tender kiss on the forehead and slipped out. John put his hands on her shoulders as she came back out into the living room, steering her to lie down on the couch. He unfolded the blanket and draped it over her.

"Very nicely done," he said, "although you'd better sleep here tonight. I'll want to check on both of you in a little while. I wouldn't have guessed you could literally drink Sherlock under the table. Your weights aren't that different, but you've got more body fat."

"Thanks a lot," Grace said, her eyes closed and one forearm resting over them. "Turn off that damn light."

"You know what I meant, and it's in a good way," John said, refusing to be abashed as he flicked off the ceiling fixture.

"Oh, for heaven's sake, John, knock it off. I think he sandbagged that game, by the way. But also, I did kind of cheat."

"Cheat? How?"

"Sally told me what they were getting Sherlock, and I knew they'd probably give it to him when you two were at the Yard today. So, just in case, I ate a lot of bland carbs and drank lots of water all afternoon. I didn't expect Mycroft's call, though."

"And Sherlock hasn't eaten since yesterday morning that I know of, and he's hardly drunk anything either," John said, nodding. "He's on a case, but it isn't going well." John got out his mobile, and sent a brief message.

_G and I got him through._

_Thanks and good night._

_JW_

He got up and set about doing the washing up. His mobile, on the coffee table, buzzed with an answering text.

"That's Mycroft's tone," John said from the sink. "See what he's got to say, will you, Grace?"

With a groan, Grace leaned over and groped for the mobile, holding it up close to her face and forcing her eyes to focus on the glowing screen.

_I see the 'danger' message in my mobile's outbox._

_However, I was not the sender._

_MH_

"John, do me a favor and go in to Sherlock's bedroom and sock him for me," Grace said wearily, setting the mobile back on the table, yawning, and curling up under the blanket. "And tell him if he wants me to beat him again, next time we're both drinking drams of Macallan 18 and he's buying."


End file.
